


skins and lights

by regicides



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (he's kind of technically right but in a chill and sexy way), Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Thinks He Is a Monster, M/M, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, men being disastrously in love with each other, slight bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28268466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regicides/pseuds/regicides
Summary: Normally, these...enhancements disappear as soon as Geralt’s won his fight.Geralt doesn’t usually look the part of the evil witcher quite this much. There’s a joke to be made here, he thinks. Something about how he looks his most inhuman whilst protecting the livelihoods of humans.*What if one day Geralt turned feral while fighting a kikimora and then just didn't turn back like he usually does and also Jaskier finds it incredibly sexy? Haha just kidding...unless ?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 211





	skins and lights

**Author's Note:**

> I'd say this was primarily based on the Netflix show, but I would be lying, because this has no plot at all.
> 
> *
> 
> Thank u @vashti_trevelyan for beta-ing ily

Geralt slays a kikimora. 

It’s harder work than usual. Were he anyone — anything — else it would’ve killed him thrice over. It almost gets him twice. He manages to drag his blade through the meat of its abdomen before it reaches into him and tears him apart, but it’s a damn near thing. 

Geralt leaves the swamp heaving, bloody and filthy, his hair and hands thick with gore and his heart thumping loudly still. 

...

His work is done, the kikimora’s hideous form in tow, but he can’t seem to school his body back to normality. Or whatever passes as such for a witcher. 

His senses are battle heightened and doubly enhanced, even though the danger has gone. 

Geralt knows what he must look like: his eyes hungry, black voids, his teeth sharpened and predatory. He forces himself to shut his mouth, fighting the urge to bear the canines to the world. 

As he reaches for Roach, he hears a crash -- the telltale sign of a potion falling to the ground and shattering.  
He’s accidentally ripped open one of his saddle bags.  
Fuck.  
Geralt’s nails are razor sharp, jutting out far beyond where they usually do at his fingertips and caked black with kikimora blood. 

...

Usually, these...enhancements disappear as soon as Geralt’s won his fight.  
Usually, he doesn’t look the part of the evil witcher quite so much. There’s a joke to be made here, Geralt thinks. Something about how he looks most inhuman whilst protecting the livelihoods of humans. 

...

For the first time in all their years traveling together, Jaskier stinks of fear as he takes in Geralt’s changed physique. 

(It lasts a fraction of a second, and is immediately replaced with relief at the knowledge that Geralt is safe. Geralt feels the worry ebb out of Jaskier, sees it in the loosening of his shoulders and the unclenching of his jaw.)

But Geralt would know the rancid stink of fear anywhere.  
...just as he knows the heady one of desire that follows it. 

Geralt explains the situation to the bard. It is unusual, but it shouldn’t be something to worry about, not yet. Not unless it persists til morning. Still, he feels strange in his body. Hyper aware and on edge. 

Jaskier doesn’t seem worried. Quite the opposite even, he seems....strangely pleased about Geralt’s predicament. 

...

Geralt takes a seat in front of the fire that Jaskier has tended to in his absence and realizes that he’s fucking famished. Something, Geralt rumbles, about fighting for your life makes a man (here, Jaskier’s smile becomes a smirk) hungry.

Jaskier locks eyes with Geralt, hands him a steaming portion of stew. 

Geralt devours it instantly, finishing before Jaskier even has time to swallow a spoonful of the stuff.

He’d feel ashamed or at least a little embarrassed if he weren’t so goddamn fucking ravenous. 

He tells Jaskier as much. Insatiable, he says.  
The bard smiles at him, devilish and just this side of cruel. He refills Geralt’s bowl. 

As Geralt demolishes his second helpings, Jaskier slowly, absently eats his first. His eyes roam over the stretch of man before him, taking in Geralt’s changed shape and cataloguing his sharp edges, his predatory build. 

Jaskier sets down his bowl. Circles the firepit until he’s stood in front of the witcher, blocking the fire’s heat and light. Imposing himself. Backlit like so, he looks like he’s glowing. Like the flames are bending to his will.

Languid and slow he reaches for Geralt’s hand. 

Geralt smells Jaskier’s lust before he feels the length of the bard’s cock, hard and hot against his hand where Jaskier has unceremoniously placed it. 

Geralt tears his gaze away from his hand on Jaskier’s cock and looks up to his face: the bard’s pupils are blown, the blackness of them mirroring Geralt’s own inhuman irises. His mouth is open, teeth caught on his plush lower lip. 

Geralt growls low in his throat, rumbles: “Didn’t know your type was monsters, Jas.”

The taunt earns him a smirk and Jaskier grinds Geralt’s palm that much harder into the heat of his cock. 

Defiant, Geralt holds his gaze and grins in retaliation.  
Though no sooner can his mouth take the shape of it does Jaskier reach out his free hand to wipe it off of Geralt’s face and pry open his jaw. 

Geralt gasps around the unexpected feeling of Jaskier’s fingers in his mouth. With something akin to wonder, the other man drags his fingers over the sharp edges of Geralt’s canines. 

Jaskier pricks his finger on one of them, and jabs the bleeding extremity further into Geralt’s mouth. Swirling his tongue around it, Geralt laps up the blood. 

Jaskier lifts up a knee and pushes it into Geralt’s groin. Geralt is hard and wanting beneath him and he moans around Jaskier’s fingers in his mouth. It’s hard to speak like this but he manages to choke out something resembling “Why?”

Why does Jaskier find this form of his, so monstrous, attractive? 

In lieu of an answer, Jaskier pushes fingers and knee harder into Geralt’s mouth, his groin. 

Geralt can smell the desire coming off of him in waves, strong and heady. It hits him like a goddamn truck, lust pooling low in his belly. 

And if he drools from the smell, spittle trailing down his chin like a muzzled dog, well who’s to say that it’s not simply because of Jaskier’s fingers in his mouth? 

Like this, Geralt can’t speak. But he doesn’t need to.

Suddenly, Jaskier is on him, straddling him. Geralt feels each point of contact between them like fire on his skin. Like he’s burning with it.

Geralt's senses are heightened in this form. He's battle ready and hyper aware: Jaskier’s touch feels like that of a predator, greedy and carnivorous on him, mapping fire over the expanse of his broad chest. It should send him reeling, should spurr him into action, quick, to dispatch the threat that his body has so obviously detected. And yet; Geralt is stunned into compliance under Jaskier’s practiced, calloused fingers.

It's easy to forget that the bard is as tall as him and not nearly as delicate as he likes to pretend he is. Like this, he encompasses Geralt almost entirely, towering over him from his place on the witcher’s lap. 

Geralt is helpless beneath him, oversensitive and dizzy with the taste and smell and touch of Jaskier to do anything but lean into the solid heat of him. Geralt keens, jerks his hips up to meet the line of Jaskier’s straining cock. 

This earns him a breathy moan from Jaskier as the bard pushes back, rubbing into Geralt’s own length. 

“Want to see you bare those teeth, witcher.” Jaskier groans out as he increases the friction between them. Geralt growls in response, showing his teeth as asked. This earns him a smile, and: “That’s it, Geralt, gods yes.” 

Geralt is lost in it. He can’t think past the hungry, feral expression on Jaskier’s face as he undoes Geralt’s trousers, can’t feel past the blistering of his skin by way of those strong, nimble fingers on the too-sensitive flesh of his cock as Jaskier grips him, can’t handle the scent of Jaskier’s lust all around and over and _on him —_

Overcome, Geralt digs his fingers, lethally honed, into the soft flesh of Jaskier’s shoulders. It rips his doublet and Jaskier howls with it, blood seeping into his linen and smearing onto Geralt’s already filthy shirt. 

“Fuck, Geralt,” laughs the bard and he’s choking on it, voice thick with desire. 

Geralt takes the hint and trails one deadly claw down Jaskier’s chest, popping the buttons of his doublet and breaking skin. He leaves angry red welts trailing all the way down to the bard’s belly in his wake.

It earns him another moan, louder this time. Jaskier sounds almost surprised. 

Geralt tries again, voice gravelly: “Why do you like this, Jaskier?”, and Jaskier trembles at the sound of it. He licks his lips, and stares at Geralt with heavy lidded eyes:  
“Because it’s _you_ , Geralt. It’s a part of you that I never get to see.” He laughs, adds: “Except in combat, and while that is often incredibly sexy to watch, I’m often also in mortal danger, which is considerably less sexy.”

Geralt grumbles something under his breath that may or may not be “...not always mortal danger.” but Jaskier ignores him outright. “So you can imagine what a fucking delight it was to see you walk up tonight, fangs out and eyes…” he shudders as he looks up into Geralt’s pitch black irises, “like _that_.”

Geralt holds eye contact, feeling Jaskier’s gaze on him like a tangible thing. The other man is flushed pink with desire, but these words come from somewhere deep within him; Geralt knows it as sure as he knows he loves the man. Jaskier is telling the truth. 

Jaskier’s voice goes soft. “It’s being able to have access to _all_ of you, Geralt. Knowing that no one else can have you like this. Knowing that...you feel safe enough to come to me. Knowing that you’re mine.”

At this confession, Geralt’s cock twitches against Jaskier’s own and he lunges for his lover, all teeth and claws and hunger. The witcher seizes Jaskier’s mouth in his, canines catching on soft lips. His claws wildly roam the expanse of Jaskier’s chest and back. Possessive and furious, he drags one deadly finger to a raised pink nipple nestled in chest hair and pinches hard before putting his mouth on it and biting and lapping at the blood drawn there. 

Jaskier comes in his pants. 

“Oh, fuck. I —,” Jaskier is pink from his belly to the tip of his ears. “Shit, Geralt, I’m —”

Geralt can’t help the deep, rumbling laugh that’s torn from his throat.  
“Jas…” , he looks at the bard fondly, though to anyone who wasn’t Jaskier, it would be impossible to decipher the emotion held in those depths.  
“Thought you were playing the big, bad bard tonight?”, he smirks.  
The taunt only makes Jaskier blush deeper, but he doesn’t back down. Rather, he steels himself and reaches for Geralt’s cock, hard and leaking against the witcher’s scarred stomach. “I'll show you big, bad bard,” he grumbles, taking Geralt in hand and sliding down to his knees. 

Geralt chokes out a groan as Jaskier’s mouth wraps around his cock, filling the bard up. It’s nothing they haven’t done before, but in his hunter’s state everything feels so much more. Geralt grabs fistfuls of Jaskier’s hair and pushes deeper down his throat. He doesn’t know that he’s ever wanted anyone as much as he wants Jaskier right now. 

_Jaskier writhing beneath him, Jaskier whose cheeks are hollowed out and whose eyes are squeezed shut, Jaskier who moans at the feel of Geralt’s rough fingers on his scalp, Jaskier whose clever mouth is sending shock waves all through Geralt’s body, Jaskier who came untouched at the bare scrape of Geralt’s fangs on him —_

It’s too much. He tugs on Jaskier’s hair, scratching at his lover’s scalp. The howl it earns him sends him over the edge. Geralt comes growling Jaskier’s name. 

Jaskier swallows him down, looking far too pleased with himself. With a shit eating grin on his face he looks up into the shining obsidian of his witcher’s eyes: “Told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

...

Come morning, Geralt’s eyes are his usual, unnerving gold and his teeth are only slightly sharper than an average human’s. 

Still, when he wakes up huddled into the soft warmth of his bard, he can’t help but wonder if the latter will be disappointed by this development. 

Or, he would if Jaskier didn’t then blink open his bleary eyes and squint at him, gaze unfocused and smiling sleepily — “Oh. Glad to have you back, Geralt.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Happy horny holidays! Kudos and comments much appreciated if you are so inclined!!! I’m not super active on there, but feel free to come scream at me @regicides on tumblr :)


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